


Infernal Regions

by sombregods



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: ... literally, Cooking For A Lover, M/M, My clothes always did look better on you, Post-Canon, Purgatory, Sharing Clothes, Strive for New Heights of Pretension that even Hannibal Could Only Dream Of, The Road To Hell Is Paved With Good Intestines (And Is Therefore Very Slippery And Smells Bad), dream state
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-07 00:20:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20300353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sombregods/pseuds/sombregods
Summary: 'Where are we?''A train.''Are we?''Where else would we be, Will?'





	Infernal Regions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asuralucier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/gifts).

When Will wakes up, Hannibal is there.

'Hello, Will.'

Groggy, sleep-tired, he asks: 'How long have you—'

'A few hours. Here.'

Will accepts the mug. Coffee, laced with whole milk and sugar. It is sweetness incarnate.

He wonders whether the milk is human milk. Then:_ It doesn't matter._

They are in Florence. They have always been in Florence. They have left imprints here of themselves—shadows. Bloodstains that don't wash away. Abigail died here for the final time.

Will sinks back into the white pillows. The duvet is cream-colored, the bedstead hard black wood. Through the open window, the sky is a pale, light gold. It is safe here. It is safe here. The thought echoes in his head. Round and round and round.

'Drink,' says Hannibal. He looks tired: as though he hasn't slept much. He leans back against the bedframe, and Will sees the lines at the corners of his eyes deepen, sees his lashes dip. Hannibal's face is ashen. He moves with careful deliberation, calculating the effort each movement will take. Will catches his eye. He drinks. Slow.

Hannibal's lips tilt up, and his eyes close. He is wearing elegantly grey, ruthlessly tailored trousers, and a sea-blue shirt. The cufflinks are fine mother-of-pearl. Will thinks of the ocean closing over them. The water entering his mouth. The nightmare of drowning.

'You sleep,' he says; his voice is rough. 'I'll stand watch.'

Hannibal's eyes slit open. He watches Will for a long moment, without saying another word, and then, in perfect silence and perfect immobility, sinks into sleep seated on the edge of the bed.

Will drinks his coffee, and watches the sky lighten into the whitest blue. Florence wakes around them. Church bells. Voices. Bright and lovely songs.

Nobody can reach them here.

* * *

In Vienna, they take rooms near Stephansplatz. Will sleeps, it seems to him, for two days. When he wakes, he wanders the apartment listlessly, like a ghost.

Hannibal writes letters.

The desk he sits at stands in the alcove of a French window, framed by it at both ends. The afternoon sun cuts across the quiet and cool darkness of the room, a hard slant of bronze light. Most of the furniture in the apartment is made in red wood, surprisingly light in color. Hannibal has put on a sweater in the same shade. He sits with his back to the door. Will lingers there, in the doorway, watching Hannibal's broad back, the tilt of his head. The turn of his hand as he writes.

'Yes, Will?'

Will says, 'Nothing. I'm gonna go out for a bit.'

Hannibal's hand pauses. 'Very well.' Then he adds: 'Be careful.'

'Right,' says Will. 'Right.'

He stops in the foyer. Hannibal's heavy leather jacket hangs on a peg. A dark brown thing like the pelt of a deer. Soft as butter, when he touches it. Will touches it. He doesn't hesitate for long.

What is Hannibal is his. What Hannibal is is his.

He wears the jacket. Then turns to watch, through the double-doors, Hannibal writing in the slanting light. Hannibal is just turned away—as though, while Will had his back to him, Hannibal was watching, as always.

* * *

In Athens, Hannibal flambés berried langoustine for dinner. He buys them fresh, and alive. They go hissing to poach in butter and salted broth, and then singing in white wine over high heat. The flesh is soft as silk, all but translucent. It reminds Will of rainy Cremona, in whose long squares and brown arcades Hannibal once bought a small bag of crab cakes and an unnamed bottle of liquor from a colorful market stall. He had somehow deemed them tolerable enough to consume, likely more for the texture—which was bizarre—than for the bitter and smoky taste of them. Now, Hannibal samples the broth and hums under his breath. The melody jumps and starts unlike anything Will has ever heard. Opera, maybe.

They eat at a low table beside their hotel window. The broth is hot, spicy, herby, with a distinct, savory aftertaste.

'What's the soup?' asks Will.

Hannibal's eyes flick up to his, steel-grey and amused. 'Need you ask?'

Will says nothing. Shrugs. 'I suppose not.' A moment passes. 'It's good.'

* * *

'Where are we?'

'Prague.'

Will remembers. He remembers the train journey, the ancient compartment they were alone in; the red wood panels, the gilt handle of the door. He remembers the taxi. Hannibal's thigh pressed against his. Then the quiet little house, and the light in the window.

Hannibal is cooking. After a moment, Will comes—he is wearing, he discovers, only a pair of soft pajama pants, and a threadbare t-shirt—to stand beside him at the counter. Hannibal works swiftly and efficiently, making a roux out of flour and butter and milk. To this he adds minced meat, heavily spiced, and a can of peeled tomatoes.

'Will?'

He leans against the counter. 'What's for dinner?'

Hannibal gives him a long, amused glance. His fingers dance. 'You'll enjoy it.'

'I know I will.'

'Does it relax you,' says Hannibal, 'to watch me cooking?'

'Yes.'

'Then, my dear, you are welcome to watch.' Hannibal seasons the meat, then tastes it. A touch of irritation hardens his mouth. 'The fare is poor, I fear.'

'Tough meat.'

'The angriest always are.'

Will returns the amusement. 'I'll enjoy it.'

'There is a dressing-gown of mine in the dining-room.' Hannibal doesn't look at him, this time. 'It should fit you.'

It does. It is rich brocade, a deep shade of blue. It fits perfectly.

* * *

They kill a man. Then another.

It doesn't feel like killing Dolarhyde did—something Will remembers vividly, the bright jet of red blood in the evening darkness, the tearing of flesh under his knife—but nevertheless it feels … good. It starts with a gunshot. Will pulls the trigger; Hannibal strangles the man when he fails to die quickly enough. Then they are standing over the body, and look at each other. Will finds, in Hannibal's all-too-familiar face, a kinship, a connection. Hannibal, head tilted like an owl's, says nothing. Just watches. He holds out his hand.

'Shall we?'

Will smiles.

* * *

'Where are we?'

'A train.'

'Are we?'

'Where else would we be, Will?'

'I thought we were … somewhere else.' Were they? A moment ago they were—in a city. Europe. Will can't keep track of them, any longer. Paris, Prague, Oslo, Moscow. Beautiful apartments, none of which they stay in longer than two weeks. They share a bed sometimes. Will sleeps the sleep of the dead; Hannibal is plagued with nightmares. And now … a train. Yes. He sees the red wood panels, the gilt handle of the door. When he turns to Hannibal, he finds that he is dressed in an exquisite paisley suit, with a soft, pale lavender pocket square. His tie is red as blood.

Hannibal smiles, extends a leg. His shoe touches Will's. 'Are you unhappy with me, Will?'

'No.' _Yes_. And then—_no_.

'It isn't quite so simple, of course,' murmurs Hannibal. 'Happiness is only a construct. A fabrication of our minds. We articulate feelings as though they belonged to words.'

'But they do not.'

'No. Even the question—_where are we?_—is fabricated. We are here, in this moment. In the next …'

'Elsewhere.'

'Everywhere.'

Will digests this. 'If not happy, what are we?'

Hannibal shrugs. 'We are.'

_We are who we are who we are. _

Hannibal gives a sharp sigh, a bare exhale. Will remembers seeing him on the other side of bars. He remembers seeing him on the other side of a glass. He remembers seeing him on a museum bench in Florence, when they were both bloodied by means other than their own. And now … here. In a train.

Hannibal's leg pushes against his own, but he is looking outside the window; he is farther away now than ever before.

* * *

'Will.'

Will is reading a mystery novel, the name of which escapes him. It doesn't matter: the book is pleasantly heavy in his hands. The words jump, startle, cross over to the next page. The ink sinks and detours.

'Will.'

Hannibal is standing in the door. Over his arm is slung a heavy woolen blue coat. Will blinks, says: 'That's my coat.'

'It's one of your coats,' says Hannibal, coming in, and closing the door. 'I thought you might want it.'

Will stands. In truth, the coat exists only in fragments in his memory: heavy on his shoulders as he walked home from the iced-over pond in the woods, behind his house; flung on top of the low chair in Hannibal's office as together they burned case-files and evidence; slung over Alana's broken body below Hannibal's windows. He watches as Hannibal folds the coat, his hands working quickly and calmly. He tucks the sleeves in, fixes the tweaked collar with a swipe of his knuckles, and smoothes his palm down the breadth of the breast. Will reaches over, and touches the softened size tag he never bothered to cut off.

'You took it.'

'I stored it.'

'For me.'

'For such a time as you could wear it again.'

'You took it with you to Italy,' says Will.

Hannibal says, calmly: 'Mason Verger was kind enough to repatriate my belongings.'

'I don't want to talk about Mason Verger.'

'What do you want to talk about, Will?' Hannibal's voice is pleasant; open to opportunity.

'Did it feel good to wear it?' He lays his open palm down on the breast of the coat. Digs his fingers in. It was a warm coat. Like a good, big dog.

'Good is complicated,' says Hannibal.

Will rephrases. 'Did it give you pleasure?'

'Yes.'

'Would it give you pleasure if I wore it again?'

Hannibal's voice shifts, imperceptibly, from pleasant to pleased. 'Yes.'

'Mm.' He strokes the coat like the back of a beast. He burrows his fingers into it. 'It's too warm now.'

'It will grow cold soon.'

'Yeah.' He touches Hannibal's hand. Hannibal's hand closes over his. 'It will.'

* * *

They are in Florence. They have always been in Florence. They have come here for the carnival, when the streets are filled with color and music and songs, and strange beings, with white faces and extraordinary eyes. Winged beings, tall as houses, parade the streets.

'The fool's day,' says Hannibal. 'Pauper becomes prince.'

'Right becomes wrong,' says Will. As night falls, they stand on the balcony of their apartment, drinking a dry white wine that tastes sharp and bright on the tongue.

'We can't stay for long.' Hannibal leans his weight against the balcony. He wears a black sweater that they sometimes share. His hands are strong around the metal railing, and white as bone. 'Jack will be here soon.'

'No,' says Will. 'He won't.'

Hannibal still looks horribly tired. In the months since the cliffs, he has not looked well once. His face is drawn taut to his cheekbones, eyes deep-set in the lengthening shadows. 'What makes you think that?'

'Don't know. Got a feeling.'

Hannibal hums, smiling faintly. When Will reaches out for him at last, he looks—if not surprised—then pleased. Will crowds into him, and Hannibal makes space for him, his hand curving agreeable around Will's elbow.

Love is not a word Will puts to his affection for Hannibal. It is too twisting, and too rotten. But physical attention gets him going, even here and even now; Hannibal has been—so far—profoundly respectful of his wishes. They have never touched in a way that didn't excite Will.

'Ah.' Hannibal touches his jaw. 'Well. I was wondering.'

'Shut up,' says Will.

Hannibal leans in, slowly, and kisses him. It isn't comfortable. Nothing about this is comfortable. Hannibal's body is too big, too hard. It feels like a _memento mori_—being kissed by a skull, a dancing skeleton. _Remember that you are mortal_. Will licks his teeth, then along his tongue. He clutches Hannibal's arm and digs his fingers in his side, where Dolarhyde's shot tore him open. Hannibal shivers. Then kisses him with teeth.

* * *

'How long has it been?'

'A few months.'

'Has it really, Will?'

Will turns over in the bed. Hannibal is sitting up, a book in his hand. If Will just angles his hand aside—which he does—he can read the title: Dante's_ Divine Comedy: Purgatorio._

'Yes,' he says, slowly. 'We've been … traveling.' He doesn't, he realizes, remember when it started. Where it started. Italy, surely. Florence. There was a church. Tall white columns of marble, and black engraved tiles, skeletons reaching upwards through the stone. There were candles—millions and millions of candlelights, and Hannibal standing beside them, his face lit by their glow.

But before that—

Before that, the sea. The waters closing over them. The taste of blood in his mouth. How warm Hannibal's body was, how solid, where they embraced. Hannibal's mouth against his hair. Down and down they sank, deep into the depths of the ocean, water in the lungs, choking them, swallowing them until they died. It was a death, of sorts. A small death. A temporary death.

Hannibal's hand touches his hair. There is a strange tenderness to the gesture, as though he is not certain that he will be welcome.

'Does it matter?' says Will, closing his eyes.

'You wanted to run away with me once.'

'I did.'

'Do you regret it now?'

Will gives the question a moment of thought. It does not occur to him that he has had a choice. Already the life they had together before—the life they shared with Jack, Bev, Alana—feels far and away. They belong to another world. They will never meet them again.

'Sometimes,' he says, 'I hope to see Abigail again.'

'Ah.' Hannibal's tone is rueful. Abigail had trusted him unquestionably. She trusted him still as she died under his hands. 'Yes.'

'Back to the stream.'

'Fishing for men.'

Will closes his eyes. 'Don't make me into a martyr, Dr. Lecter.'

'I,' says Hannibal, 'would no longer dare to do anything to you you would not welcome.'

His touch is slow, certain, gentle. He touches Will's brow, his shattered cheekbone. His jaw.

Will reaches for him then. He says, 'Turn out the light.'

**Author's Note:**

> I saw _the road to hell is paved with good intestines_ and immediately went _purgatory fic_. You gotta go where the wind takes you ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ moreover opportunities for foodporn = nicenice.


End file.
